Joy Unleashed

by Jean Baur

  The dogs strutted down the long hallways, past the carts with drawers full of medications, past the shelves of adult diapers, past the smells that gagged us, past the aides rushing back and forth with clean bedding, and Deb and I looked at each other and didn’t have to say a word. We knew why we were here and, being together, the two of us and our dogs, the loss rarely overwhelmed us.

  Chapter 26

  EVERY DOG HAS A STORY

  Summer–Fall 2013

  Stonington, Connecticut

  The bond we had with our own dogs was lasting and unbreakable. At The Starfish Home, a patient named Frank told me about a collie he had as a boy. His words fell over each other but I got the important parts of the story: there was a huge field behind his house, and he and this dog played there together. They were friends. They were inseparable. Frank could see this dog now and feel his fur. Because Bella was present, his dog was, too.

  Frank collected newspaper articles. He loved history. He had a poster of the hurricane of 1938 on his wall. His bookcase was overflowing. He was like a librarian, always searching for information. And he loved to talk.

  I’m not a patient person, but I did my best to listen, nod, and make encouraging noises. But if he was asleep or turned from the door, I sometimes passed by his room, as visiting with him was a commitment. It took time. And it was very difficult to leave. His idea of a visit was not five minutes and a little chat. He had things to say and needed someone to say them to.

  As I looked at him, I realized he must have been a handsome man. He had a broad forehead, sandy hair, and still had some muscle tone. But the giveaway was his pants—gray sweatpants bunched up over his adult diaper with food stains from his chest down to his knees. He and his memory were in a life and death battle. Words, faces, even his own past was slipping away, often just out of reach. He stopped in the middle of a sentence and I waited. Bella looked at me as if to say shouldn’t we keep going?

  “Good girl,” I told her while Frank struggled.

  He used finding things as a way to cover up his memory loss.

  “Oh, just a minute, just a minute!” And he turned his wheelchair around to face his bed, which was covered in newspaper articles.

  Then he shuffled through them, held one close to his face so he could read it, and said, “See this?”

  I didn’t have my glasses on so I couldn’t read.

  “What about it?” I asked, trying to sound friendly while wondering how I could get out of his room.

  “These politicians,” he said. “They don’t know what they’re doing.”

  I nodded.

  “And then they go and ruin things.”

  “That certainly can be true,” I agreed.

  “But never the way you expect.”

  Now I was stumped and decided to go for it.

  “Hey, Frank. It was great to see you and we’ll stop by next week. Okay?”

  And before he could find another article, before he could trap me in another sentence that had no end, I waved and disappeared down the hall.

  According to Deb, my “boyfriend” lived across the hall from Frank. His name was Bob (just like my husband) and he was a tiny man with long, delicate fingers. His hair was always neatly combed to one side. He had one of those things on his bed that looked like a tent that kept the blankets from pressing down on his feet, and he always wore a blue plaid bathrobe. His pants were neatly folded on the chair next to his bed. No clutter there.

  Deb called him my “boyfriend” because he didn’t give her the time of day when she visited without me. He was almost as talkative as Frank and loved to tell me about his dog, a German shepherd mix who only liked him.

  “We lived in a small apartment in Queens and this dog wouldn’t let anyone in unless I told him to sit in the corner. But then he’d stare at whoever had come to visit—not a friendly stare either!” Bob laughed.

  It was hard to imagine him as young, but I knew he had been married (his wife died many years ago) and they had two grown children.

  “He was guarding you,” I said, and got immediate approval from Bob.

  “Oh, yes. I had a cousin who liked to horse around, play practical jokes. That kind of thing. Couldn’t do it around my dog. But once, he had the dumb idea to walk around the house and come in the back door. I was sitting in the kitchen and I saw my dog’s head lift, ears erect, and watched as his whole body went on high alert.”

  I imagined that this dumb cousin was taught a lesson.

  “Of course I don’t know that it’s my cousin, but I hear footsteps outside and the dog runs to the back door and lunges at it.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Lucky for my stupid cousin, I get to the door before the dog breaks it down and attacks him.”

  Bob was having so much fun telling me this story, he could hardly contain himself.

  “Boy, did I give it to him. And get this. He was ticked off that the dog came after him.”

  “Bet he never did that again.”

  Bob nodded, still far away. Still seeing that dog. Full of pride as if he had somehow made his dog into this ferocious and loyal creature.

  “My wife and I cried for a week when he died and we never got another dog. Just couldn’t do it, but I never felt as safe again. That was some dog.”

  Bella put her front paws up on Bob’s bed. He extended his long fingers and I placed a treat on his palm. We’d gotten this down to a routine. Somehow from telling me about his dog, he veered off into a story about his two sisters. One died at four months old, and shortly after that, the older one became gravely ill.

  “At first it seemed like a cold, but then she had trouble breathing and the doctor was useless. So my grandmother came over and sliced up a large onion, wrapped it in a dish towel, and put it on her chest. And you know what?”

  I didn’t know but could imagine the smell. The smell and the fear. “What?”

  “In the morning she was better. Still weak, but better. We knew she would make it and the onions were all black. They had sucked the illness out of her.”

  “Really?”

  Bob nodded.

  “Amazing,” I said. Bella nudged my leg as though I’d forgotten I was supposed to move on.

  Bob’s face was glowing as he remembered his sister. The one who made it. And the dog.

  Deb was halfway down the hallway. I’d spent so much time with Frank and now Bob.

  “See you next week, okay?” I asked, still wondering about the onions.

  “Long as I’m here,” said Bob with a flirtatious grin.

  I guess he really was my boyfriend. He reminded me of an elf. His roommate was slumped over, fast asleep in his chair, so I skipped him. Bella pranced, so glad to get going and be back with Shelby.

  I thought of the hospital as the place I went with Kat and her dogs, Wren or Boo. They were beautiful and well-trained. Kat was instrumental in getting this program launched a number of years earlier. As we got to know each other, I appreciated her quiet strength. She didn’t draw attention to herself, but with one of her dogs, she glided into the patients’ rooms, and with her soft voice and careful listening, they turned to her, trusted her, and shared their stories.

  We met up later and visited a man she knew from her neighborhood. A farmer. He was strong and tan and reached hungrily for Wren. He recently had his leg amputated and told Kat he wasn’t sure how he was going to get his chores done. Bella and I watched, and I was stunned by how matter-of-fact this man was. How calm. Kat was great with him: attentive, curious, and totally there. He asked to meet Bella and we walked over. Wren moved aside.

  “Who’s this little cutie?” he asked, scratching her behind the ears.

  “This is Bella. We’ve been coming here for a year, mostly with Kat.”

  “You don’t have much fur, do you?” He laughed.

  “No, she’s sleek but you’d be amazed by how much she sheds.”

  He reached to touch Bella on the head and she ducked. His eyebrows shot up and he asked,
“Is she afraid? Does she have issues?”

  I nodded, wondering if he’d like to hear the whole list: thunder, gun shots, having her head touched, sometimes men with hats, large dogs, small dogs, fireworks, nurses who came up to her too fast, wind, a door slamming, and so on.

  “She’s funny about having her head touched. Sometimes it’s okay, but most of the time, even with my husband and me, she avoids it. I don’t know why.”

  He accepted this. He was a farmer, used to the quirks of animals.

  I gave him a treat to give Bella and then she was fine being close to him. We stayed another five minutes and then said goodbye.

  When Kat and I debriefed out in the hallway, she asked me why I used treats. She added, “I can’t use them with Wren; she is so food driven, she’ll ignore the patients.”

  “Bella,” I told her, “is the opposite. She only eats when she feels like it and doesn’t steal the cat’s food or take food off the table. But she often needs a treat as a lure, to help her over her shyness. Otherwise it’s a struggle.”

  What just happened with the farmer was a perfect example.

  As we walked toward another room, I added, “I don’t know how else to get her close to the patients. If there were another way, I’d do it.”

  Rationally I knew that differences were okay, that all pet therapy teams were unique, and the work they did, the power they had to heal and comfort, were all the same. But part of me still felt like I was back in seventh grade, not fitting in. I wanted Kat to like me. I wanted her approval. And most of all, I wanted her to recognize that Bella was doing the best job she could.

  She broke the tension by telling me that Wren once pulled a cast-iron pan off the stove, carried it in her teeth to the living room, not spilling a speck of food that was in the pan, and then devoured it.

  “No!” I said, laughing.

  “Oh, and a cup of coffee? She took the mug by the handle, then took it to where she could drink it without being found out.”

  Now I got it. This was a different creature—not a dog like Bella who grazed, ate a bit of her food, walked away, and finished it later if she felt like it.

  We worked out an arrangement, visiting some rooms together, others separately. I noticed that Bella always did better with another dog, whether it was Wren, Boo, or Shelby. I think they kept her relaxed. I think she learned from them. It was like sharing gossip with a friend and I imagined they were telling each other: Did you smell that guy? or Watch out for her. She’s a grabber!

  As we rode the elevator down to the lobby, I watched Bella lick the side of Wren’s mouth. I saw her shimmer with pleasure. For all her challenges, she was a wonderful dog. And look, I said to myself, look how far she has come and what she can do.

  As we walked across the parking lot, I realized how individual this work was and how unique each team became. Bella’s strengths and weaknesses were combined with my personality, who I was, and how I did things, to create a single impression, a single thing. A visit from Bella and me was unlike any other team. She and I brought our relationship, what we had learned about each other from hours of training and living together, to each encounter. And of course Kat and her dogs had their own style and chemistry, too.

  In the past, I had jokingly referred to myself as Bella’s chauffeur, the one who got her to work. But now I saw that that was inaccurate. It wasn’t just her, it was us. It was who we were together. And somehow the bond that we had together allowed others in. It invited them to closeness.

  We gave the dogs time to stroll around on the patches of grass, and Kat put Wren back in her crate in the back of the van. Bella, proving that she did have an interest in food, poked her nose into a shopping bag on the floor in the back of her van and Kat laughed. The package inside was closed, but Bella knew they were dog treats.

  On the way home, I asked her about her work as an evaluator of therapy dogs for Pet Partners, wondering, as she talked, if Bella would have passed her examination.

  “The first thing I look for is that the dog and his or her handler are a team. They need to be confident and inspiring. As you know from doing this for a while, there are always distractions—always things that can make this hard for a dog. So I look to see how the team recovers from the unexpected.”

  I remembered Bella’s test and how calm she was when they dropped pots and pans on the floor right next to her—surprising for a dog who cowers when it’s windy. But I was by her side and didn’t react, so maybe that helped.

  “As I score a team, I pay attention to what the dog can do and what the handler does. And the handler must be so focused on the dog, so in tune, that the dog’s safety comes first. This is work for them, but it’s got to be safe work.”

  I nodded, hoping I didn’t get so caught up in visiting patients that I forgot to watch for signs that Bella was tired or stressed out.

  “And of course, the dog must be well groomed and healthy, and the handler has to engage well with people.”

  I thought about this for a moment and added, “And then there’s sweetness.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not saying this is part of the test, but your dogs and Bella are sweet. They have wonderful faces, great dispositions. They make people instantly like them.”

  Kat nodded and turned to smile at me. Our dogs were different, but we were on the same page.

  Chapter 27

  OUR VERY OWN SCHOOL

  Fall 2013

  Stonington, Connecticut

  Bella, being part terrier, was sometimes identified as a pit bull, even though she didn’t have that typical square head and jaw. Because pits have such a bad reputation, mostly unfairly, I corrected anyone who called her a pit bull and said that she was a blend of terrier, whippet, and lab. I often left out the Mexican Hairless breed that we thought she also had with her high body temperature and black skin, just because so few people knew that breed. Part of me was a lot like a pit bull—known for getting hold of things and not letting go. Back in the spring, while still working with Carol and Max at the Gales Ferry Elementary School, I launched a campaign to get Bella working at the elementary school five minutes from our home.

  First I found out who the principal was and discovered that my brother-in-law, also an educator, knew him. So I wrote a friendly email, using this connection to introduce myself and Bella. I mentioned what we’d done at the Gales Ferry School and suggested we meet. As the school year wasn’t out yet, I knew the principal was busy, but I expected a response.

  After a few weeks of hearing nothing back, I tried again. More nothing. Then I called and left a voicemail. Still no answer. Then I stopped by, without Bella, and told the school administrator who I was and that I was trying to reach the principal. He was out. A few more weeks went by, and now it was early summer 2013, and school was out. I was confident he would get back to me, but he didn’t. I loved the kids at Gales Ferry where we’d volunteered for the past six months, but realized it didn’t make sense to spend more time driving than we did at the school. I wanted to be able to sustain this. Then I stopped by again, this time with Bella. The school administrator was not at all sure this was a good idea. I explained that she was a certified therapy dog and had worked successfully in another elementary school. I asked to see the principal. He was out again.

  At my wit’s end, I tried a new tactic: I wrote an email and put in the subject line: “Should I give up?” He called me the next day and we arranged to meet. I told myself to be careful not to share my frustration in reaching him. I got buzzed into the office and he came out to meet me. He was friendly and outgoing. We sat in his office and he told me a new special education teacher had been hired for the fall, and that she was very interested in having a therapy dog work with her students, but he wasn’t sure it would work. They’d never had a dog at the school.

  I told him it was amazing to see how dogs affected children. They shared a similar energy, they bonded instantly, and most important of all, the kids loved the dogs. They loved having t
his nonverbal affirmation. They loved the status of being the one with a dog at school. I asked if he’d like to talk with Carol or the school principal at the Gales Ferry School.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said. “What I think you should do is reach out to our new teacher and see what she wants.”

  I wanted to ask him if he was behind this program. But I didn’t. Better to get the teacher on my side first, I thought.

  He gave me her name and email and asked us to work it out. I left him copies of Bella’s paperwork, certifications, and vet records, and told him I’d reach out to the new teacher, Aimée (pronounced a-may).

  “We’d love to start in the fall,” I told him before leaving the school.

  As soon as I got home I told Bob (and Bella), “I think I did it! I’ve got to ask the teacher, but according to the principal, she’s interested.”

  Bob knew me and wasn’t surprised. Persuasive was the nice word. Pushy and determined might also be true.

  The day after I emailed Aimée, she got back to me and said she had always wanted to see what a dog could do with her students. She was new to the school so she wanted to get her own routine settled before bringing Bella in, and she suggested we start the second week of school in September. I couldn’t wait.

  The summer went by quickly as it always did. Bella swam in the cove, all five grandkids visited—our daughter had three children ages seven, five and three, and our son had twin eight-month-old boys. They were adorable and we loved being part of their lives without the day-to-day responsibility. We lived out on our patio and threw tennis balls endlessly for Bella, who never tired of fetch. It was my favorite season; it slowed me down. I was happy to spend time outside in the garden and kayaking with Bob. We had always enjoyed our Connecticut summers, and we were loving being here year-round now.

  My other projects continued so I taught my Boomer class, gave talks at libraries for people looking for work, and did publicity for my new book on interviewing that was coming out in the fall. I was finally over being let go from my job. This life—this flexible schedule with time for the work Bella and I did together, time to watch and simply notice things like the way the wind moves across the water—fit me so much better than my old schedule where I was always rushing not to fall behind. And then, suddenly it was Labor Day and time to check in with Aimée.